The cell phone rings.
Veronica picks it up from the coffee table and looks at the screen.
Unknown.
She shrugs, placing it down on the couch. Don't interrupt my Adult Swim, she scoffs in her head.
One minute later, it rings. She looks at the screen again.
Unknown.
She sends the call to voicemail, and within moments the phone rings again.
"Let me at least listen to the voicemail," she stammers.
She sighs, takes a breath.
"Hello?"
Click.
"Really?" she says into the phone.
It rings again.
"Who is this?"
Dead silence.
"Hello?"
Click.
"Ugh!" She sets the ringer to vibrate.
"No chocolate cake. Remember that."
Veronica laughs and takes the keys that are handed to her by Sybil Cattrell, a middle-aged woman with curly blonde hair and a mole on her left cheek.
John clogs down the stairs, to which Sybil protests. "Stop making so much noise, John, you'll wake them up."
"I just put them into bed, Sybil, they're not out yet." John twirls and in one movement a trench coat and fedora transfer from the coat rack to his body. Veronica swoons. His looks were straight out of a magazine.
"Ready?" he asks his wife, to which she rolls her eyes.
"We will be back around midnight. You can call John's cell if you need anything."
"Unless I drink too much whiskey," he laughs.
"If those kids come down, remember, no chocolate cake."
Veronica finishes the last bite of chocolate cake while standing in the kitchen over the sink.
A flashing light and buzzing.
She answers it absently, the last delicious bite still in her thoughts, and is abruptly met with deafening silence.
"Hello?"
Then, a voice, as if some man filled his throat with gravel and choked to death, and was speaking from his grave. "E...le...ven."
"Who is this?"
"E...le...ven."
"Is that your name?"
"E...le...ven. Thir-ty."
"What?"
Click.
Veronica checks the screen, which displays the word Unknown again.
A creak sounds from above, which startles her.
The phone buzzes.
"Hello?"
"Have you checked the children..."
"Who is this? Bobby, if it's you, I swear I'll kick your ass! You know this is my first babysitting job!"
"..."
"Bobby?"
"Have...you...checked..."
"Stop it."
"...the...children?"
She clicks the phone off and rushes to a block of knives shining in the moonlight coming through the kitchen window. She withdraws the largest butcher knife.
The phone buzzes.
"You fucking creep, I swear I'll cut your dick off."
"Have you checked the children..."
"I know who you are!"
"Have you checked the children?"
The call cuts off. Veronica steps into the hallway, nearly stabbing a trench coat and hat before realizing its just the coatrack.
Making her way up the stairs, step-by-step, she listens carefully to any movements above.
Nothing.
“That was a great show,” John says, reaching over the table to grab his wife’s hand.
"Can you check on Veronica and the kids?" Sybil asks.
John looks at his cell phone. "I'm not getting any service.”
“Can you try outside?”
“Relax,” he responds to her. “They’re in good hands. I’ll check again in a few minutes.”
“Alright.” She offers a small smile. “Let’s get some food then.”
John winks at her and sends the phone into his coat pocket.
Veronica clutches her butcher knife and twists the door handle to the children's room. The door opens to darkness. She walks in and flips the light switch.
The children are in bed, their faces drawn in sleep. She walks to each, detecting their breathing. Sybil's eight-year-old son gives a slight grunt, disturbed by Veronica's presence.
The window is open, and a breeze disturbs the gossamer white curtains. She rushes over and shuts the window. She locks it.
She looks outside. Pools of street lamps dot the street, and from the second story, she can see the Golden Gate Bridge, which is brightly lit.
The corner of her eye catches movement, and she spins. She opens the door to a closet, but nobody is there.
Maybe the calls have stopped, she thinks, peering at her phone. It reads: 10:55pm. She turns off the light and closes the door behind her.
The phone buzzes, and Veronica looks at it with dread. She keeps sending it to voicemail, yet the caller persists.
"What do you want?"
"E...le...ven thir-ty."
"What's at eleven thirty?”
A slow chuckle that seems to be borne more out of malevolence than humor. "Are you...upstairs..."
"How do you--"
"Are you...upstairs...with the children?"
Click.
Veronica jumps to her feet.
She rushes to the stairs, nearly tripping. "I don't want to do this."
She looks at her phone. Eleven twenty-five.
She calls John, but gets his voicemail. She texts him. No answer.
She dials 9-1-1.
11:29 p.m.
Veronica ends the 9-1-1 call.
At the landing of the stairs, she notices that the children's bedroom door stands ajar.
She looks down at the knife, which reminds her.
Of the time.
The time when the man came.
The man with the knife.
Who crept into her house.
And into the bedroom she shared with her brother and sister.
The butcher knife reminds her of that knife.
She pushes the door open.
She steps into the dark room.
The door slams shut.
John and Sybil try to push into the doorway, but the police block them.
"You can't go in, it's a crime scene."
"My children! Where are my babies!"
The look on the policeman's face tells her all she needs to know. Sybil collapses into John’s arms on the porch swing chair.
"Where’s Veronica?"
"The teenager? Suicide.”
John’s coat pocket starts to buzz repeatedly. He retrieves his phone. Almost all of them voicemails. "My phone's reception returned."
"Who are they from?"
He scrolls through the call log. "Veronica. All of them, from Veronica."
He pauses.
"And one text message,” he utters.
"What does it say?"
John’s face draws into bewilderment.
"Have you checked the children?"
"Have you Checked the Children?" is an entry into the Urban Legend Flash Fiction Contest hosted by @jrhughes at
Image Credit: Geralt
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Escape from the Noh
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